


Somewhere a Clock is Ticking

by CloudAtlas



Series: All Hallows Eve 2014, Be_Compromised Style [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clint Barton Made a Different Call, Gen, Magical Realism, Strange Abilities, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has many gifts, but this one is slightly more unusual than the others and perhaps calling it a gift isn't strictly accurate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere a Clock is Ticking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samalander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/gifts).



> I don't even know. Clint's "gift" is stolen from Hunter in Morning Glories. The Torre dell'Orologio is real (and finding the type of clock tower I needed was hard dammit) and the title is from the [Snow Patrol song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PLg7zXlgNus).

Clint had a gift.

Well, Clint had many gifts really. He had a gift for pissing off his superiors, his teammates, his handlers and… well, everyone. He was very good at that. He was very good with a bow and arrow too.

But there was something else too, though maybe calling it a gift wasn’t strictly correct.

Clint was very good at keeping time. If you told him it was thirty six seconds past the minute, he could tell you exactly when that minute was up. But it wasn’t a gift exactly; it was learned. Over the years he’d taught himself how to do it, because Clint couldn’t tell the time.

Or more accurately, when Clint looked at a clock, that clock would never tell him the time. The clock would unfailingly say 11:58.

It was hell when he was small; he was always late to things which normally meant bruises and his father’s alcohol-laced breath. It wasn’t that great in the circus, problematic as a freelancer and terrible as a junior SHIELD agent, where he’d constantly have to ask those around him for the time, which tended to piss them off.

As a senior agent it was better because he could work mostly how he wanted, which stopped most of the side-eyeing. He usually had someone close by with a watch, telling him the time or how many seconds there were left in the minute. Clint could then take it from there, keep the numbers ticking over in his head. 

Oddly, seconds worked. They’d happily tick over from one to fifty nine. Just, when fifty nine came around, he’d never see the minutes change. It would always stubbornly say 11:58.

He’d got used to it, and he was good enough at his job that it never really became an issue.

Clint was in Venice, sliding around the terracotta roof tiles of the Procuratie Nuove in Piazza San Marco. He was there because someone had a grudge match they felt was best settled by hiring the infamous Black Widow. 

SHIELD didn’t care about ending the grudge match, but they sure as hell cared about ending the Black Widow.

Clint had been tracking her for three days – an almost impossible task – but if his intel was correct around midnight (the timekeeping was really taking its toll now. His last accurate update had been three hours, forty eight minutes and twenty seven seconds ago) she should exit the building below from the fourth storey window, climb up to the roof and then head towards the river.

The clock of the Torre dell'Orologio struck the three-quarter hour and about ten minutes later, by Clint’s estimation, he heard a window open below.

The woman who emerged over the parapet was, by some miracle, not expecting him to be there. She wore black tactical gear and gloves, and Clint had an arrow aimed at her before she could even draw her gun.

Clint should have killed her immediately, but instead their eyes locked, and they stood there, tense and waiting. Though for what, Clint couldn’t say.

“Are you not going to kill me then?” she asked as the clock struck midnight, a slight Russian accent curling around her words.

Clint nodded, but didn’t release his arrow. Her arms were loose at her sides, and she made no motion to reach for her gun. From the ambient light filtering up from street level, Clint noticed she looked tired; tired and worn and… resigned.

Clint suddenly couldn’t remember the time. Between the Black Widow pulling herself over the parapet and now, Clint had lost his seconds.

“What’s the time?” he asked, suddenly needing to know.

The Black Widow raised a disbelieving eyebrow before nodding her head in the direction of the Torre dell'Orologio. But that was no use to Clint, so he barely gave it a glance before repeating his question. 

“What’s the…?” 

Clint trailed off, his shoulders suddenly tensing and his gaze shifting back to the clock. At this time of night it was floodlit, the gold and blue almost glowing in amongst the white marble.

“What the fuck?” Clint whispered disbelievingly. 

Right there, in Roman numerals on one side and Arabic numerals on the other, was the time. 

XII 05.

Twelve oh five.


End file.
